"I did not stick my hand up your arse!""Well somebody did," I said.
"Why would I stick my hand up your arse? I know what comes out of it."
And so, the morning of our wedding anniversary gets off to the worst possible start.
Seventeen years of marital harmony, and somebody goes and sticks their hand up my arse as I slept. Not exactly the awakening any man wants, to be honest.
I protest further, but she repeates: "I did not stick my hand up your arse!"
Perhaps a little bit of clarification is required:
I had gone to bed that night, the eve of our special day and Adolf Hitler's birthday, following a not insubstantial feast of various cheeses and a pleasant South Australian Chardonnay.
This had – unsurprisingly – led to a rather bizarre dream in which I had been commissioned to build a memorial for the Scottish victims of the Vietnam War, which had spilled over into the back streets of Dumfries as a result of a tragic map-reading error in 1971.
Using my hitherto unknown stonemason's skills, I had fashioned said memorial, which was in the shape of a large, grinning moose. When you pressed the moose's big, red nose, it plays 1958 chart-topper "Hoots Mon", and the last person to find a seat when the music stops is out of the game.
It was just as the Mad Scot was intoning the sacred words "Hoots mon! There's a moose loose about this hoose!" that it happened: UFIA.
Unsolicited Finger In Anus.
"Oooyagh!" I said in surprise and alarm, "Oooyagh!"
When I had peeled myself off the ceiling, and calmed down sufficiently to take in what, exactly, had happened to my poor, violated bottom, I looked at my bedside clock.
3.37am, it said, as my charming wife slept soundly next to me.
Or was she merely acting? Who can tell?
"I did not stick my hand up your arse!"
"Then who did? Who did?"
The can be only one explanation. We have a ghost in the house.
A dreadful, bummy ghost.
Hoots, mon.
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